Levine turned obediently, saying as he did so, “Just one thing more, then the year’s absence will be spanned.  How does the Great Search go on?  Do you ever have bad dreams at night, now?”

“Sometimes,” replied Lydia.  “Just the other night I woke up with the old fear and then—­it was very curious—­I heard the lap-lapping of the lake, and the little murmur of the wind in the pine and the frogs cheeping and the steady chirp of the crickets, and, Mr. Levine, the queerest sense of comfort came to me.  I can’t put it into words.  Somehow it was as if Something behind all those little voices spoke to me and told me things were—­were right.”

“Lydia,” said Levine, quickly, “you’ve struck the right trail.  I’ll follow it with you.  What a long way you’ve come alone, little girl.  Give me your hand, dear.  I like to feel it on my arm.  Oh, Lydia!  Lydia!”

“What are you two mooning about,” said Amos’ voice, as he loomed on them through the dusk.

“Enterprises of great pith and moment,” replied Levine.  “Got any tobacco with you, Amos?”

“No!  We’d better go in the house, anyhow.  The mosquitoes will eat us up.  Lydia, Margery’s looking for you.”

And as far as Lydia was concerned, the evening was ended.

Levine was very busy with the details of the Indian removal for the next week or two.  The exodus was accomplished in a business-like manner.  A steady line of busses brought the Indians from the reservation to the outskirts of Lake City, where rough barracks had been erected to care for the government wards while they were being concentrated.  The state militia was on guard here, at intervals along the road and upon the reservation.  There were some disturbances on the reservation, but for the most part, the Indians were dazed and unprotesting.  Before the concentration began, the precaution was taken of sending Charlie Jackson under guard to the new reservation in the Southwest.  Lydia had never seen him after her day at the hearing.  She always was to carry in her memory, his handsome bronze face, too early marked with lines of despair, as she saw it while she uttered her protest to the commissioners.  And it was a hauntingly sad memory to carry.

She went with Billy to see the embarking of the Indians in the special trains provided for them.  The streets along the line of march were lined with whites, silent but triumphant.  It was a beautiful day, clear and hot.  Two by two, the Indians moved along the fine old elm-shadowed streets, old Wolf at the head, shambling and decrepit, but with his splendid old head held high.  Two by two, in utter silence, their moccasined feet soundless, old Indians in buckskins, and young Indians in store clothes, then squaws, in calico “mother-hubbards,” great bundles strapped to their backs, and children in their arms or clinging to their skirts.  A long, slow moving line, in a silence that even the children did not break.